It's all quite the lark
At the moment
For the aftermath
Of a plane crash
This island is beautiful
And the weather is clement
There's Brocken trees everywhere
We have the means to make fire
An abundance of edible fruit

Only six passengers booked
On an airliner made for hundreds
Little bags of nuts
And whisky miniatures galore
Though we've powered through em
Ravening greedy ******

But there are few animals
And we cannot hunt
When winter rolls round
And the fruit is gone
We'll see a different front

And so I see the laughing faces
Over the signal fire
A demented form of joy
The appearance of a pyre
As the last of the ***** gets drained
Lost spirits once again raised
I thank god I grabbed that machete
And wonder if humans
Are better fried or braised